


Call It What You Want

by paperdragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdragon/pseuds/paperdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are fuck buddies, and guy-best friends, and accidental fiancés and already-taken men, and they're all smoking hot. That still doesn't mean Lyanna has to marry one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call It What You Want

**Author's Note:**

> **notes 1** no beta, so all mistakes are mine. I don't own anything other than the words or the jeans i'm currently wearing.  
>  **notes 2** pukes- because wow, what even is this.  
>  **notes 3** references to a lot of sex, and kinks. so just, pretty much beware. also, explicit. enjoy.  
> 

your social guides give you swollen eyes   
   but what I've got can't be bought

     - foster the people.

 

She casts a critical look in the mirror, takes a good, long look at the puffed up monstrosity she’s being made to wear (corset bodice, a thousand laces intersecting at her back, hundreds of layers of silk and net all piled on top of each other in the bottom, the whole jazz), the one that makes her father get that far-fetched look in his eye.

An old friend of her mother bought it for her along with her father apparently, but now she looks- wait for it- _just like her lady mother_ in it, so they make her wear the pastry thing that skims over her hips (in a sort of flattering way she doesn’t like at all) and look at her with watery eyes, and the entire time she feels like digging her nails in and ripping the whole freaking thing into scraps and making it rain with velvet lining and itchy net.

Oh yeah. This is going to be just _great._

The thing is, nine weeks ago, baked and out of her mind, Lyanna said yes. That’s what Benjen tells her, at least. In her mind it went differently. There she is, celebratory dinner over some douche’s engagement & she’s bored out of her mind, so she borrows a lighter and smokes the shit out of the joint she’s got stuffed in her purse. Then, ten minutes later, Robert tells her he loves her and asks if she wants a hotdog and she says yes. Fifteen minutes later, she’s got a huge ring on her finger and she still doesn’t know what’s going on.

And that’s what pot does, kids. So now, she gets to be married to Robert in a huge, showy wedding that he insists on in the male, chauvinistic way of his and she’s too tired to fight him for it.  What’s worse is the day after the proposal, is that she finally figured out what the fuck actually happened and freaked out all over the place and totally had an anxiety attack in a gas station bathroom and couldn’t breathe, or figure out what to do and had to call Jaime because _wow,_ how would she even begin explaining this to her father?  Worse, what’d she say to Robert, who’d once asked her if she was breaking up with him because he ate the last slice of cheese cake.

Jaime drags her out of the bathroom and gets her out into fresh air and tells her to breathe, gets her into the car but doesn’t start driving until her heartbeat’s slowed down and her breathing’s evened out, gives her a cigarette that she can’t light because her hands are shaking way too hard so he has to lean over and light it for her and _fuck-_ when did it get like this?

( She met Jaime at one of those parties Robert took her too, as usual breaking his promise to be with her in the sea of unknowns and then leaving at the exact moment the word of a drinking competition reached him, and she’d been pushed by the current across the room and the lights were too bright and this man had tried to get in a good squeeze of her ass and she’d thrown Robert’s half unfinished drink in his face and Jaime had laughed, close beside her, nineteen, with golden hair and bright green eyes that danced with mischief. She’d bristled, told that other guy she’d seriously damage his ability to have children someday, sent him on his way. And then she’d gotten annoyed at the way he was staring at her and called him out over it, and they’d ended up alternately buying each other drinks and she didn’t think she’d ever see him again only to bump into him next time she went out to a fundraiser with Brandon and he’d come over and put a drink in her hand, asking her to _not throw it on someone’s  face and actually try it first,_ and she’d laughed, bright and loud, rare, sipped it and told him she didn’t like it, and then he’d laughed.)

 Her hands are shaking badly right now, her cigarettes’ dropping ash over another dress she doesn’t like but wears, all over that expensive leather car seat that Jaime paid for and she can’t properly inhale and ends up coughing loudly, a brash sound, no doubt. Jaime doesn’t reach over for the cigarette, doesn’t say a word and she feels like crying, feels like telling him to take her to the Mexican border so she can run off and live in a shack on some godforsaken beach, maybe finally learn to speak Spanish fluently and work on her tan but she can scarcely breathe so she’ll stay quite because it might come out as something else, like some subconscious babble her mind decides to spit out and that would end up with things and issues that need to be dealt with and she can’t deal right now.

(Robert loves her, she’s sure of that, she is. She loves him too because for all the things she’s done in her life, he’s always accepted her the way she was, never told her to wear something she didn’t like, told her in the most earnest voice he could muster that she looked sexy even when she was wearing sweat pants and a sports bra, always laughed and smiled when she wore boots under gowns, so yes, she does love him, but she’s never imagined herself married to him, to walk down the aisle and meeting his smiling face, never imagined having his children and a minivan and a white picket fence and soccer games. Not once. Not with him. )

She can’t deal right now because Robert’s having the time of his life in every strip club he can find on Google maps and having glitter rubbed all over him, and if it was up to her she’d go drag someone to a strip club and throw money at stripper cops if that would help, but she knows it won’t and she knows it’s stupid and the entire thing just sucks, like, _so bad._

(Brandon snorted when he saw her wedding dress, Ned quietly complimented it, Benjen just wrinkled his nose, but it was Jaime who gave her _that particular_ look he’d been giving her for the last six years of their friendship, told her she looked like a gigantic pastry and then said _a beautiful pastry_ when she smacked him on the head, still laughing.)

 Oh Geez.

Oh Fuck.

It’s like that one time two years ago when she and Robert took a break from each other and he decided to go fuck Jaime’s sister over the course of the next three months while she decided to go to Paris with the Silver-haired heir of Targaryen Industries without telling anyone and sure, it was amazing, mind blowing and so, so awesome, but so not worth it because they returned to missing posters of her pasted all over the state and Brandon yelling all over the place about the Targaryen bastard who stole his sister and it took another two months to work the whole thing out- tell local law enforcers it was all a mistake, total consent from both parties, no kidnappings and certainly no rape took place, that everything was fine now and they could maybe ensure Rhaegar wouldn’t be confused as a kidnapper whenever somebody saw his face (courtesy of her now fiancé) and she’d had to deal with his wife and every other person looking at her as if she’d burned their sacred cow at a stake. So she’d met Rhaegar after it was all dealt with and even he knew what she was going to say and said it before her, and they were okay then- sometimes he called her, sometimes his wife did, asked how she was, which surprised everyone including all three of them that Lyanna and Elia would get along so well after it all blew over.

It’s like that time after it all blew over and she went there and had a fucking orgy with her ex and his wife and Arthur Dayne, because why the fuck not, Robert was still buried way deep in Cersei and she’d like to.

(The next day she’d sneaked into Jaime’s apartment, using his key for the first time, because there was no fucking way she was going home like this, looking the way she did: fucked senseless and sore all over, hair a messy mop over her head, mascara smudged to the point where she looked like a fictional character Benjen had forced her to watch in a marvel movie. Jaime had woken up at the noise, trudged from his bedroom, rubbed his eyes and looked at her, blinking a couple of times and acted as if it was completely normal and offered her coffee and she’d thought she loved him. )

Sitting with him in the car, he’s not saying anything and she’s not saying something either and it’s awkward which is so fucking ironic because it’s _never_ been awkward with Jaime, not once. Not when he was holding her hair as she threw up, not when he told a girl he slept with she was his girlfriend to make her leave, not when she’d gotten wasted and half stripped and he’d stopped her, not even that time when he’d slipped while taking a shower and twisted his ankle and yelled for her and she had to take him to the hospital while he was half naked, not even when they were doing shots and he accidently kissed her and she ‘accidently’ kissed back and the next day they didn’t freak out about it, _never._

It surprised her to see how things could change and how fast.

(She’d gotten back with Robert, after he and Cersei broke up- Jaime told her Cersei loathed her guts for sleeping with the senator. But oh well, forgive her if she wasn’t in the mood or not caring about what golden-cunt Cersei thought of her. )

“You okay?” he offers and she laughs, loudly, because it seems to be the only thing she can do. It’s that or crying and by God, she is not going to cry over this. Just, no, okay? She’s Lyanna Stark, she’s a wolf and right now she forcing herself into a marriage she considers a mistake and she has a thousand things to do, more than a thousand- call the DJ, call the baker, make the guest list, go out with _friends_ and buy lingerie she won’t need because, well, Robert isn’t really one for fancy clothing on while fucking, get legs shaved, try on dress again for final changes, buy shoes, decide theme for wedding- and yeah, her hands are shaking again.

So she laughs about it, because laughing is always better than crying, and she’s pretty damn sure that if she does cry she’ll only end up asking Jaime to take her away, and the worst but sort of endearing part is, he will. He’s proved to her countless times that he’s always there for her, and he’s made good on that vow every. Single. Time.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I decided to panic in a gas station bathroom about y impending marriage, but yeah, I’m okay. ” She says, not the best conversation ever, but she’ll take words over silence any day.

Jaime looks around, looks straight in front and squints as if he can see further then she can. “So say no.”

She can’t help but laugh again, but it’s different this time. It’s not that bubbly, carefree laugh, or the nervous laugh, or the _I’m going to fucking kill you as soon as we’re alone_ laugh- it’s pathetic. It sounds like she’s dying, and maybe she is, she sure feels like it. It sounds like she’s being pulled through a keyhole and she can resist all she wants but it’s never going to work out. Because she’s said yes now, and she can’t take it back. It’s like saying _I love you_. You can say it and then it just won’t go back in no matter how much you or the other person wants you to take it back. It’s out there like a huge fucking billboard, just screaming its presence until you can’t help but address it. And she’s a Stark, and it isn’t even about herself anymore, it’s about fucking honor, and fucking tradition and her fucking family’s name that her father’s worked so hard to keep above the mud and dirt- which according to him isn’t working because he has two feral wolves for an elder son and a daughter- so she can’t take it back even if it’s the wrong choice for her.

Really. Fucking awesome.

“You know I can’t do that. You…You know my father. You know what honor is to him. What it is to a Stark. ” She says, but it sounds weak, because her voice is all dry and rough and wavering and _fuck_ , she’s probably going to either scream or cry. Crying though, is always better than screaming- mainly because she’s an amazing singer and her vocal cords do not need any more stress, and also because she sounds like a freaking banshee when she screams, and Jaime’s seen her like that only once- ad she really doesn’t want him to see her like that again. And then she suddenly thinks about why the hell she’s started caring about what Jaime sees or not. It’s this thought that hits her out of nowhere, because she has much larger things to worry about- like suppose, a wedding? In fact, it throws her off so much she doesn’t even listen to what he’s saying and _wow._ When did this happen and why did she not get the memo to her own feelings? Jaime’s seen her worse off than anyone in the world has; he’s seen her at her worse and her best and vice versa.        

“What.” She asks, because she’s hasn’t even picked up on a word he’s said in the last three minutes.

He sighs, golden hair falling on his face. The sun seems bright and strangely sadistic, and the wind is hot and unwelcome.     

“Screw honor. I don’t have a lot of it, and I’m getting by just fine.” He pause, looks at her. “Look, if you want to get married to him- if you think it’s right- then go ahead and marry him, but if you don’t- don’t fucking ruin your life with the excuse of honor.”

And he’s right, because that I exactly what she’s doing. She’s marrying Robert with the flimsy excuse of family honor instead of just (wo) manning up and accepting the fact that she, by her own rights and perceptions does not want to get married. What she’s doing is lying- lying to everybody, including herself. It’s like punching her family’s flag in the face, Goddamit!

“Everything’s done- I… I can’t just…” She starts, even though everything is _so_ not done- nothing is done in a wedding until the bride and groom leave the reception but what she means is that _enough_ is done and saying no now would be like bitch-slapping every single excited person in the face, but God, is caring about two day’s happiness of some distant relative really worth sacrificing her entire life?

“Yeah, you can.” Jaime says, and she suddenly feels like a retard because, once again, she’s totally blanked out on their conversation. Oh, no, okay, yeah, she remembers now.

“No- I…I can’t. Plus, maybe it won’t be that bad. I mean, it’s Robert. He loves me, I love him. We’ve been in a relationship for three years. How bad can it be?” She says out loud, and holy shit, she sounds even more dubious in real life than in her mind. She cringes over her own words, because she knows Robert like the back of her hand, knows him and knows herself too- and she knows how bad it can get. He’ll yell and she’ll yell right back and one of them will end up leaving and the other will end up getting drunk, and she’s pretty sure that part is supposed to come after at least, one a half decade of marriage and two children. 

“Oh God. Okay, Yeah, it’ll be bad. It’ll be worse than that time with Oberyn.” She thinks but also says out loud, but oh my God it is so much like that. Oh Gods, she’d been asked the story over and over and over again and every time she’d come up with something new to say because wow, the actual one made her cringe in shame.

Oberyn Martell, the biggest playboy the world had ever seen, and proud of it too. Also brother to Elia, Rhaegar’s wife, who Lyanna totally fucked every night for two months- but, Elia did forgive her later on and said she didn’t mind them together as long as she was included- and wow, their first meeting been nothing short of terrible.

It’d been at one of those huge donation banquets and each plate was worth five thousand dollar and she didn’t even want to go but Elia had texted her especially and Brandon had looked at her with those _I need you_ eyes and told her about how awkward it would be trying to woo Ashara Dayne into taking off her skirt when the night ended if she wasn’t there to hold Ex-girlfriend Catelyn at bay. So she’d accompanied him and sat on a fancy chair until a very handsome dark skinned stranger came and sat opposite her and she’d had half a mood to flirt and half a mood to clout Brandon on the head and demand to be taken home immediately because this evening was so not worth five thousand dollars and then Elia had suddenly said, _Brother,_ and she’d gotten it and then Oberyn had called her a slut.

Or what he actually said, word to word, was, “So, What did you do to have him take you to Paris, slut?”

And everyone had gone real quiet and half had looked at him and half at her and she’d said, “The same thing you do thrice each day, Man- Whore.”

And Oberyn, nicknamed _Prince of the Pussy,_ had picked up his half-full wine glass and thrown it on her, and she’d gasped, outraged, and in return thrown her untouched one on his face and he’d  coughed and Elia had stood up but not moved and he’d picked up a piece of lettuce and hit her on the cheek and she hadn’t backed down either and had thrown the salad bowl, which unfortunately missed his head but still touched it, and he’d kicked her under the table _hard_ and it had been the last straw because that was the _fucking line_. She’d stood up and crawled over the table, ignoring the food or the drink or the beautiful dress she was wearing or the achingly well-fitted suit he was wearing, and jumped on top of him and they’d kept on yelling and screaming and he’d had his hands on her shoulders trying to push her off and she’d been pulling his hair and they’d rolled around until everybody had stood up and formed a circle around them like it was fucking _fight club,_ until her dress had ripped from her thigh and his shirt was ruined and they didn’t have the strength to do anything anymore and they’d let each other go and Elia had looked like she’d seen a baby panda being murdered before her eyes and wow, she’d felt so damn guilty about it.

So she’d gone and sat outside, waiting for Brandon to do what was expected and not show up when Oberyn had and grudgingly offered her his coat and then offered to drive her home and yeah, she’d accepted because yeah, Brandon was her brother and she knew him better than she did herself and he was _not_ going to come downstairs until eight rounds of rowdy sex, and she really did want to get home and call Jaime and bitch about all that had happened and sure, if he was offering her a ride she was not saying no.

“Elia put you up to this, didn’t she.” It wasn’t even a damn question, or an accusation- a simple statement that spoke very well indeed.   

“Yes, she did. She’d rather I’d apologize, but I’d rather not fuck around lying.” He’d said, a resigned tone. “And I very much doubt that even if I did apologize falsely, you’d see through it quite fast and I’d rather not have a repeat of the dinner scene.”

And working through all of what he’d said, especially what he hadn’t said, had been quite the task, especially when combined with thinking up a retort worthy of administration.

“How very chivalrous of you.” She’d said, quick and biting, “Why not? Knowing your reputation, you probably like it rough.”

She didn’t know what her expression had been when she’d said that, but Oberyn had later on told her that she’d been smiling in a very sexy way and that’s when he’d first thought of having her in his bed.

He’d rolled his eyes, shifted his weight from one foot to the other and given her a smaller smile in return and she’d stood up and said, “Alright, take your coat off and hand it over.”

And he’d whistled, laughing and said, “Are you this demanding in bed too?”

She’d almost laughed, reined it in and replied, “Too bad you’ll never find out.” 

But he had, because on the three hour ride back to her family’s mansion she’d thought about what he’d look like naked and then he’d turned on the music and one of the best rock songs of the century, _Reines of Castamere,_ had burst out of the radio and they’d had fun listening to it and then they’d yelled about what an ass Tywin Lannister could be which had led to him pointing out that generally all Lannisters were assholes to which she’d taken offence, having a Lannister for her best friend, and they’d yelled back and forth about how family genes did or didn’t matter and the name still tainted whoever held it or not and it’d gotten way out of hand until he’d had to park the car to the side and yell at her about God knows what now and she’d yelled right back until he’d kissed her. Right out of the blue, he’d leaned over and kissed her, and it didn’t help that her heart was pretty much already on over drive but she’d kissed back and somehow they’d ended up in the back seat with her dress pushed up her thighs and his pants unzipped and all she remembers is this burning need and his lips on hers, rough and feral as she bucked against him.

And then, after the deed was done, he’d taken her home and it hadn’t been as awkward as she’d expected- actually not awkward at all- because now they actually had something to tease each other about instead of fighting. It’d been silent at first, getting back into the front seats and checking to see if anything showed but their little wrestling match at the banquet pretty much explained the torn dress and the tousled hair.

“You fuck much better than you fight.” He’d said, the first thing after it and she’d laughed, loud and clear and she remembers it still.   

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She’d replied, and then, “You know, I finally found the best way to shut you up.”

He’d smirked, sly and knowing and he’d dropped her off like a complete gentleman, well as much as a gentleman you could be after screwing said companion in the backseat. But he’d kissed her, his hands on her waist and then he’d whispered _good bye, wolf girl_ right in her ear and she’d gone upstairs with her shoes in her hands and thinking that was the end of it. Only it really wasn’t, because three days later he’d called her up and asked her to come downstairs and _wear something nicer than what she wore that day_ and she’d told him she didn’t trust him enough that he wouldn’t rip another dress of hers and he’d laughed and told her to hurry the fuck up. And she’d looked out of her window and sure enough there he was in a fancy suit and everything so she’d got out the perfect dress –that she’d been forced to buy by Ashara- which was apparently the most perfect combination of slutty and elegant- and she’d gone downstairs and he’d grinned and kissed her right there and then in front of Ned and Catelyn, which would have been fine on most occasions, except Oberyn’s kisses were never chaste or quick- they were consuming, soft and rough at the same time and hinting of what was to come next and if Catelyn’s gasp was anything to behold, it was not a very innocent kiss. But he’d taken her to some very fancy restaurant and actually been a complete gentleman this time and made her laugh and this was also the night where she’d accidently gotten the wrong champagne glass which had a huge diamond ring in it and she’d looked at it and then him eight times without blinking and he’d looked legitimately worried and then seen the ring to which he’d breathed in relief and hurriedly told her that it was not meant for their table and the other couple sitting beside them had heard them talk to the waiter and awkwardly blushed and the woman had screamed _Oh My God, yes, I’ll marry you, Arden!_ And she’d laughed with him.   

And it had worked that way, but she hadn’t really taken it seriously because of the conversation they’d had where he’d told her he liked her, a lot, and she’d rolled her eyes and laughed and finished his sentence for him- _But I’d like to continue seeing others too and I hope that doesn’t bother you._ And it hadn’t, because it was all fun and games and Robert, again, was somewhere else in someone else’s bed and it was surprisingly okay with her, and how could it not be with all the amazing sex she was having. And so he’d continued having sex with her and any other guy or girl that was hot enough to fuck and she’d had threesomes every weekend for three months with Elia and Rhaeger because why the hell not- where else would she have gotten freedom like this?

But then, one night after a round of unfortunately, very vanilla sex, they’d come to the conclusion that they just weren’t working out anymore. It wasn’t as if there was something wrong, or someone had said the wrong thing- it’s just that they were two very similar souls not made for being held back by commitment. _You and me? We’re people who other married people secretly want to be,_ Oberyn had said to her and she’d nodded, the cigarette butt in the middle of her teeth as she lit it. So they’d parted ways but she’d still call him and he’d still call her and they totally had sex with each other whenever they were bored or there was no other hot person to pull into their beds.

 And it’s still like that. Well, they’re not fuck buddies anymore, but they’re very good friends and always meet up at all the huge parties and he always kisses her on the lips, much to everybody’s chagrin.

Okay, so she’s wrong. That time with Oberyn was actually not that bad and now she’s even surer that time with Robert is going to be pretty damn, what’s that word she’s looking for? Oh yeah, _terrible._

“Scratch that.” she says, and then promptly throws her head against the headboard and peeks out of her left eye at her best friend with his amazing golden hair. “Oh God, Jaime, what am I going to do?”

“Say no.” he says, totally nonchalant.

“I can’t do that.”

“Awesome.”

She peaks at him from the corner of her eye. “That’s your super gold lion-ey reply? _Awesome?_ Like I’m fucking joking around here?”

“Yes.”

“Jaime. Jaime, what the fuck.” She says, head back up straight. And then a very strange but most probable condition comes up in her head. “Oh my God, are you mad at me?”

“No.” He says it like it’s the most fucking obvious thing in the world, and that’s pretty much what decides her on the fact that he’s mad at her, because this is what Jaime does. It’s what he’s done for the last six years of their friendship.

“Yes, you are.” She says with newly found confidence. She knows Jaime. She knows him better than she know herself- she knows what he looks like when he’s sad, when he’s disappointed, when he’s angry, that look he get when he’s bitter about something, what kind of smile he has when he’s tired but still stays up with her to hear her read out old books just because she likes it, the pure excitement on his face when the White Sox win, or how he looks trying to explain her what football means to him... _she knows him._

 “No, I’m not.” He tells her and she hits him on the shoulder and he looks at her with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t lie to me, Jaime. I know what you look like when you’re angry. Spit it out or so help me God I’ll do something we both will regret.”She says, her tone speaking of that summer where he refused to tell her what he thought of her brother after almost telling her and she’d gotten them stuck in traffic, _purposely,_ on a Friday night. And Jaime, who’d been sick of everything after the first hour, had told her that he didn’t like her second older brother because he was worse than a grouchy old grandma and more judgmental than anyone he’d met so far.

Jaime sighs, shakes his head, seems to get the whole reminded message of what happened last time and decides to not go through another replay. Especially in New York. On a Saturday night. “You’re ruining your life. You’re destroying your future, your career and basically giving up everything you are and for a very, very idiotic cause.”

“Excuse you! That idiotic cause you’re talking about is my family’s honor.” She tells him, but it’s weak but she does mean it.

“When did honor make anybody happy, Lyanna?” He says voice louder, and she suddenly notices everything about him again.  The shade of his hair, the cut of his face, his eyes that seemed to echo everything he said- even that repressed honest streak that only she saw when he was angry.

“Alright, you want me to say no so bad? You don’t get it Jaime! How the hell am I supposed to do it, huh? Am I supposed to go up to Robert and say, _Hey sorry for hanging you for so long, but I’ve decided I don’t want to get married._ Am I supposed to tell my father, _hey, dad, sorry for making you and Steffon give that ten thousand dollar advance on booking the hall but I really don’t think I’m ready for marriage!_ Am I supposed to fucking write new emails and cards to all my fucking relatives saying, _sorry for the invite, it’s not happening anymore. You can cut out whatever you put in the calendar and replace it with fucking bingo night._ Isthat what you want me to do?” She’s yelling by the end of it, actually yelling- her voice has been slowly rising as soon as she started talking.

He doesn’t reply to that and it pisses her off. “I can’t do it, Jaime! So call me a coward, call me an idiot, call me a fucking retarded moron who’s going through with a mistake but I can’t do it, okay? I... I just can’t.”And unlike her previous sentences which had raised her voice, this time her voice just goes down and down and down until it wavers and it suddenly hits her that she’d started c _rying_ and hasn’t even realized it.

And even though she’s pretty sure what she and Jaime were doing was fighting, he still leans over and hugs her and she cries harder at that because these past few weeks have been a total fucking disaster and this is the nicest thing ever.

“You think…You think it’ll be okay?” She chokes out, voice like pebbles.

“Not really.”

And there’s that honest streak she loves so fucking much that she hates it.

Jaime drops her home and she goes upstairs and calls him immediately just because he finds it annoying and he doesn’t pick up the way he never does and she smiles before running to the shower.

She’s lying in bed when there’s a knock on her door and she takes out her head phones and puts them on her drawer.

“Well, look who it is- my favorite sister.” Brandon says, already in, that very familiar smirk on his face again.

“And there he is, in all his glory, my favorite brother.” She says, laughing. She puts her books to the side, and makes space for him to sit beside her. It’s late, almost two am and everybody except them is probably asleep. She and Brandon had always been the trouble making duo, from daring to steal Tywin Lannisters boots to purposely dropping sauce on Mace Tyrell’s shoes every time they saw him.

After he’s done lying down next to her, she looks at him, her hair falling into her face.

“So, what’s up?” She asks, softly because her father and Ned always think something bad is going to happen whenever Lyanna and Brandon get to talk to each other.

“Nothing. ” He says and it is so damn obvious he’s lying, and that’s kind o funny because Brandon is the most suave guy to any lady and once had five girlfriends without even one finding out about the others but he cannot lie to his own sister.

“What is it?” She asks him, again and he sighs, rolls his eyes and lies down, staring at the ceiling. 

“It’s just… it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to talk to you. Just a few months ago you were always there hanging out with me and suddenly you were just, I don’t know gone. I didn’t mind it, of course, why would I care; it just took some getting used to.” He tells her, and she can see the underlying thing he won’t ever say but she smiles brightly nevertheless.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” She asks him, elated, her weight on her left elbow, looking at her brother who continues to stare at the ceiling with a slightly had-caught-in-the-cookie-jar expression.

“No.” he says, but she knows.

“Yes, you did.” She sing-songs, just like she used to when they were children.  

“Just a little bit.” He tells her, and she grins and rolls on top of him.

“So, how’s your new girlfriend?” She asks, his hand in the ends of her hair.

Brandon laughs, sudden, very much like himself. “She’s amazing. And beautiful. And perfect. And interesting.”

“Not more than me though, right?” She asks, even though she knows the answer.

 Brandon is her brother, her flesh and blood, the closet person to her. She knows the answer because he’s told her the answer two years ago on new years’ when he was totally wasted and she couldn’t get drunk too because that totally made her the designated driver. _I love you, Lya, more than anyone else,_ he’d told her, and she’d called him a liar and he’d said no eighteen times in a row really fast and then said, _my heart belongs to just one person and that’s…that’s you._ And Lyanna had smiled, and laughed and knocked back a beer and totally ignored the blush that had spread through her cheeks because wow, awkward alert. And again, being awkward with Brandon was like watching the world end- it didn’t happen. Not even that time when she was fifteen and thought she was home alone and decided that this would be the best time to masturbate but it was actually not because her brother had no manners and had totally barged in and she’d thrown her clock at him and he’d screamed apologies over and over and then they’d gone back to being normal about it two days later.  

“Never more than you.” He tells her, and she smiles before kissing him sloppily on the cheek before rolling off him and on to her back. She knows, but she loves to hear it anyways.

“Hey, Brandon, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to answer honestly, yeah?” She says, and he can see him nod. “If you were being forced into a marriage, how would you say no after you’d said yes?”

Brandon fist pumps and she decides to check for brain damage. “Brandon. Dude, what the fuck?”

He has the courtesy to look ashamed. “Oh, God, okay, sorry. It’s just that I might have been running a betting pool over the fact that you love Robert, don’t love him, or whether you want to get married or not and you just made me win three grand.”

“I get half.” She says, like it’s a given, because it fucking is.

“Obviously.” He says.

It’ silent for a while after that and she wonder if she’s going to have to repeat the question because he’s forgotten or if he actually heard it and just doesn’t know what to say so is utilizing the number one Brandon Stark technique that is used whenever he finds himself in a problem – Ignore it.

But he does speak, surprising her. “I’d get it over with as soon as possible. The longer you wait it out, the higher the other guy’s hopes rise, and the harder they fall when you _do_ say no. Believe me, I know.”

“Barbery?” She says, even though it’s not a question.

 _“_ Barbery. _”_ He says, nostalgia in his voice.

The name is considered a taboo in their household, never to be spoken. The story? Brandon didn’t even tell it to anyone else, not like he told her. If anybody did ask her, she’d tell them the shortest, easiest version of the tale.

_Hot steamy sex, one sided issues over clinginess and possessiveness, bad break up, huge fuck fest that was then simplified into a smaller fuck fest, which wasn’t really that simple and ended up with Brandon ; legitimately afraid of leaving the house._

She suddenly remembers her most calm and supportive relationship till yet. Two years ago, when she decided to date Arthur Dayne.  Oh yeah, she dated Arthur fucking Dayne, who most girls died about when they saw him without a shirt. And okay, she hadn’t really decided to date him, it’s just that Oberyn and her break up from an official pairing was done three months ago and Robert had come back for the last two until she’d come home early and seen him fucking this other college kid and been like _fuck this and fuck you, Robert._

And she’d decided to go celibate for at least six months because she fucking needed a break from men. And she had stayed celibate throughout those six months, regretted it at the end because she could have been out having awesome sex with strangers for six months and then not regretted it because she’d felt a lot better without any guy in her bed all the time. She’d focused on her studies and gone out with friends and kicked Brandon for whoring around and hung out with Benjen who was going through the time where he acted like he didn’t want his older sisters ruffling his hair and calling him with embarrassing nicknames.

 And then when she was finally done, she’d decided it hadn’t been that bad and it had been something she’d been glad she’d gone through with. So the first day of the seventh month, she’d worn the best dress she owned and red lipstick and decided to get bat shit drunk all over the place as a celebration and announcement of the fact that she was single. And she’d gone to Elia’s latest party, hell bent on getting wasted and in some dude’s bed with her hands tied to the headboard, but only if life were that simple. Instead, she’d ended up seething all over the place because Robert had been there and he’d taken her plan to heart and had ended up drooling and yelling and well, drunk. Unlike her, who had had to dance with every single man she could find to avoid dancing with Robert because he always got a little too handsy in public places. And even after she’d danced with everyone, even Barristen Selmy for Christ’s sake, Robert had finally found her and danced with her, but dancing with drunk Robert wasn’t really dancing, it was just him throwing his entire weight on you and his chin on your shoulder while he talked about how nice your breasts looked and all you could do was try not to tip over your heels on the wrong side and fall to a very bad concussion.

And she’s not sure what her face showed that night, but it must have been something truly terrifying because Arthur Dayne had come up to her and asked for a dance and she’d never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life and getting Robert off her front was such a good feeling. _Thank you,_ she’d said, not knowing what else to say because this way Arthur Dayne, this was the actual knight in shining armor stuff guy who every girl dreamed of and here she was dancing with him in a freaking ballroom and if that wasn’t something to be freaked out about, then she didn’t know what was. And in the end, he’d offered to take her home and she’d said yes and told Maege she wouldn’t be going with her and gone with Arthur and it was…strangely uneventful.

He’d driven her home and not…kissed her unlike most men did and she’d thought that was it and she should just be happy she danced with him instead of suffering drunk Robert.  But then, Arthur Dayne had actually asked her out to dinner and for a moment she’d forgotten she existed before she’d acted calm and cool and said _Yeah, I’d love to._   

And then, three days later she’d gone out with him to some moderately fancy restaurant and they’d sat in booths opposing each other and he’d talked to her like he wanted to know her for who she was and didn’t just want to get it over with so that they could fuck each other in the back seat, but like he was actually interested in who she was and it, it was fucking _overwhelming_ because she’d never had this in her life. It was always playing footsies or flirting or thinking about what the other would look like naked, it was like going through whatever they were talking about because they didn’t actually care about it and only wanted her to strip and yeah, this was weird.

And so for the first time in her life, Lyanna had dated a total gentleman - and she didn’t do gentlemen- she did drunken encounters and stupid mistakes and chaffed hands and bruises over her hips and a very well deserved all-over regret fest for all the parties included because that was what she did and what she was used to. But with Arthur, it was strangely…perfect, as much as she wanted to gag over saying it, it sort of was. He was amazing and caring and had this whole personality most didn’t see and as a huge bonus, he was so goddamn _hot_. All he needed to do was leave his shirt unbuttoned and eight girls would fall at his feet. 

He slept with her after six dates, after she knew more about him than she knew about most, and she remembers the fifth date- she’d worn this blue dress that Jaime had called her _a gorgeous pile of bullshit_ in, and sleeping with him had been out of her because he’d never tried to force her or hint at it and she remembers thinking whether back in the past, before she was born, before her mother was born, dates actually used to be this way, with people talking and knowing what the other liked and didn’t, and she’d laughed at some story of his childhood and it’d been great and while they walked two whole lots to where his car was and the conversation had lapsed into silence and she’d looked at him, properly and quietly and then she’d had a stupid urge and acted on it- she pushed him against the car and she’d kissed him for every compliment he’d given her and for well, everything she’d thought didn’t exist in relationships, and he’d kissed her back as if she was the one who’d done it all, and like she said before- it was _overwhelming_.      

But unfortunately, they hadn’t done anything more and Lyanna had been pretty damn peeved about going to bed hot and bothered- again- but it was totally worth it in the long term. Or rather short term, because the next time, she’d come over and they’d ordered out and laughed over the baseball game and she’d stolen more than half of his orange chicken and then she’d made the offhand comment of not ordering dessert and his eyes had darkened and he’d kissed her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. And she’d mentally agreed that if in the future she had to go on ten dates to have sex like that, she totally would- because _Oh My God,_ this man was a God in bed. And the next morning, she literally had trouble walking but she had that shit eating grin plastered to her face and she’d realized she looked like Brandon and then realized _that was why_ Brandon looked like that every weekend.

The next time they’d gone out together was at the New Year’s party at the Baratheon’s, and she really hadn’t wanted to go but she’d been forced to and she’d ended up asking Arthur to come too because Brandon had explicitly told her his plans to ditch her for Ashara as soon as they got there and they’d gone there and it had been _so freaking terrible_ It had been so bad because Robert had ended up begging her to take him back and then kissed her and she’d pushed him off and then Arthur had come to her rescue- the total knight in Armani- and Robert had decided to hit him and Arthur had hit back and it had turned into this huge fight with someone hitting someone with the very expensive, older-than-her wine bottle and Oberyn had actually opened a betting pool over who would win and had won a few grand with it and Brandon had come down with Ashara at that exact moment, looking totally blissed out and post-orgasmic and they’d both gone ‘ _what the fuck_ ’ at the scene and Lyanna had been too busy screaming loudly for her ex-boyfriend and her current boyfriend to _fucking stop acting like fucking three year olds_ and had actually gone forward to try and pull them apart but Jaime had stopped her and told her she would most certainly not look good with another torn dress and a black eye and a most likely dislocated shoulder so she’d stopped and held his hand instead but hadn’t stopped screaming at them and this was also the first (and hopefully) the only time Jaime had heard her screech like a madwoman.  What was worse was that one of them had pushed down the ice sculpture on the other and Cassandra Baratheon had finally come down the stairs in the most beautiful golden gown and screamed louder than Lyanna, which was quite a feat because she’d been screaming pretty damn loud. (Later on, Oberyn once told her over dinner about how their combined voices made a few glasses crack and she’d kicked him on his shin from under the table.) Elia had vomited in one of the vases and Rhaegar had looked legitimately scared. And then finally when all hope was lost and many glasses were broken by their voices, Steffon Baratheon had heroically entered the scene and pulled the two apart and Cassandra and Lyanna had finally stopped shrieking about their respective worries- which consisted of Cassandra yelling about her tapestries and her ruined furniture and _everything priceless I ever brought,_ and Lyanna screaming about how immature they were being and also about _how the fuck am I going to have sex with my boyfriend when he’s in the fucking hospital-_ and by the end of it they had to call an ambulance for Robert because the ice sculpture had done significant damage and fortunately a waiter with two years of med school under his belt had taken care of Arthur who also had significant damage to his face and Lyanna had gone outside and sat down in the middle of the lawn and just cried because _God, could her life be any more pathetic?_

She’d felt like freaking Meredith Grey with some stupid romantically angst-y drama driven life and that was actually a very good excuse for crying while sitting cross legged in someone else’s lawn, and she’d kept on crying until Jaime had come and pulled her up and taken her home but not before stopping for take-out from that fancy new Greek place. And they’d gone over to Jaime’s apartment and she’d changed into that extra pair of clothes she kept at Jaime’s in case of having to change her look from _walk of shame_ to the _stride of pride_ and these just so happened to be sweatpants and a very huge t-shirt. He’d switched on to some channel playing the midnight rerun of some stupid vampire drama-fest love triangle shit and they’d eaten amazing Greek food with Jaime’s little brother -who was like the sassiest thing in the world- and it had been the best thing that could have happened to her after the whole thing and she’d almost teared up again before Jaime had very seriously told her to get her shit together and she’d laughed and stolen his food again. Then she’d gone to sleep in the other room which belonged to her in all but name because it wasn’t used by anyone other than her. She’d woken up late and he’d already left for that training match of his but he’d left a note and coffee and she’d smiled despite remembering last night’s events. Also, upon opening his fridge she’d seen the chocolate. He’d left her chocolates. _Freaking chocolates,_ and not those cheap ones you could get from pharmacies, they were expensive ones in those ribbon packed boxes and specifically the flavor she liked and she’d loved him so damn much in that moment.

But like she explained to Maege, there was a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone, no matter how tiny or stupid that difference was. Continuing, she’d stayed there till night with Tyrion and they’d made fun of things and insulted hot shot people and surprisingly called his dad a dick, together and then they’d had elaborate debates over politics and business and literature and moral ethics and it’d been so much fun and then they’d cooked some fancy French recipe they’d seen on the food channel that very morning and it had surprisingly been very good. Around seven at night, she’d finally decided that it was time to face the outside world and had switched on her mobile and packed her things and left her dress in her room’s cupboard and Tyrion had mockingly given her a tearful goodbye and told her to keep in touch before she’d left. During the cab ride home she’d checked her phone which had been swarmed with texts and calls and wow, this was almost as bad as that time with Rhaegar. Almost- because at least there weren’t any posters of her and also because no rape case was involved and also because Brandon wasn’t yelling from the outside for some guy’s head.

So all in all, it was a win. Not really, though, because once she got home Brandon and her father had raved on about how immature and stupid that situation was and Bed had stared at her with this pitiful look as if she wasn’t supposed to have such a dramatic life and she wanted to scream at him and tell him that just because he had three children and a beautiful wife and a good job and everything didn’t mean she had to too and it was fine if she didn’t and if she was twenty five because it was her life and she was still figuring out what the fuck she was going to do with it and she didn’t need judgmental stares and pitiful looks and ground rules and it had been so annoying that she’d just ignored them all in total and gone upstairs and locked the door and peeled off her clothes and jumped in the shower and sat there for five hours pretty much hoping to get pneumonia and drop dead because _she_ _did not fucking need this._

But after five very pathetic and very embarrassing hours, she’d come out and dried her wrinkly skin and lied down on her bed and almost screamed when she heard her window being opened from the _outside_ before realizing it was Benjen and then lying back down- only this time with him beside her. _I’m glad you’re okay,_ her little brother had said and Lyanna had never loved him as much as she did in that moment. 

Then she’d let him out and slept the entire day and woken up at four in the evening and decided to legitimately get her shit together and deal with things and changed into the most decent thing she owned, which happened to be a white dress shirt and some very nice black jeans and she gone downstairs with her hair up, looking high and mighty and when Brandon had opened his mouth she’d sent such a glare his way that he had shut up and even Ned and Catelyn hadn’t said anything about it. She’d gone to the hospital first visiting Arthur and had given him a piece of her mind-less than what she’d give Robert, of course, but it was still there- and then given him a hug even though he had a fractured rib from that table they’d pulled down, and then she’d gone over to Robert and let all hell loose and raved until security had to get her out of there. Then she’d bought herself a tub of ice cream and gone over to Maege’s apartment, and her friend had opened it looking all flustered and ready to go out but she’d taken one look at Lyanna’s face and let her come in and cancelled her date three minutes and twenty seven seconds later and Lyanna had almost started crying into her ice cream. Maege was one of her closest friends, the only _girl_ friend she had in the world and the reason they were friends was because they let nothing come between them, ever. Not a guy, not a girl, not even chocolate. The only fight they’d ever had, twice, was over the fact that Maege thought pads were better than tampons and Lyanna didn’t.

So, she and Maege had sat down and watched a stupid Katherine Heigl movie with that guy from _300_ , and she’d gone home at eleven and by not wanting to go through the living room and _Judge Judy’s_ judgmental eyes, she’d decided that climbing up two stories was better and had climbed up to her room, only to find Brandon and Ashara making out naked on _Lyanna’s_ bed with a tape recorder on _Lyanna’s_  dressing and Lyanna had fallen in through the window and screamed, _For Christ’s sake put a fucking towel down_ and shit had officially hit the fan, because after that their dad had started to come up and to not be cut out of the family will Brandon had thrown a coat on Ashara and told her to stand beside outside the window on the ledge while rapidly dressing himself. It’d been very close, and they’d almost done it, except Ashara was too slow with just one leg out and they could see Rickard’s shadow and Brandon had pushed Ashara out and instead of being greeted with Naked Ashara and Brandon, their father had been graced with Ashara’s piercing scream as she fell down into the flower garden Lyanna had tried to hard not to ruin with her boots while climbing up. Then they’d had to take her to the hospital because she had a severe concussion, to which Lyanna had desperately wanted to yell ‘ _pussy_ ’ at Ashara because Lyanna herself had dealt with far worse, but hadn’t and had instead sneaked into Arthur’s room and held his hand and he’d asked her how her day was and whether she was done with that paper her professor in Uni kept asking for- like it was the most normal day in the world and he wasn’t  really sick or slightly bleeding from where that broken chair leg scratched some skin away.

And she’d laughed, too loudly, because a mean, fat nurse had come and pushed her out of the room.

Things had settled down after that, for the next two months. She’d gone out on dates with Arthur and spent time at his flat and then she’d gone and hung out with Jaime and sexted Oberyn like she always did.

And then Renly had thrown that fucking high school party.

Renly was Robert’s smallest brother, after Stannis. Renly and she had been good friends, she’d watched all sorts of summer action flicks with him, Benjen dragging her along. And in just a few years, that fifteen year old she’d seen running around the house with some girl was suddenly eighteen now.

It was a typical high school party- nothing out of the blue- apart from the whole congregation of strippers Robert had called for his little r a brother, and she’d tossed back a few drinks waiting for Arthur and maybe, just maybe those few drinks had turned into a dozen or two and by the time she’d gotten off the dance floor it’d been three hours and Arthur had been sitting somewhere in the corner with Jaime looking kinda disappointed.   

And even through the whole haze of alcohol the realization that they were just way too different had come and slapped her across the face with a force that had left her speechless. The only thing that could have come out of it would have been both of them stuck in one bed and fighting until one couldn’t take it and decided to go get wasted and cheat and it would end up wasting time and everything. So she’d talked to him outside and told him, and he’d looked really fucking shocked, but he’d gotten it too- he’d seen it- and they’d hugged and he’d still dropped her home and she’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry but she had. Not immediately, but she’d finally vomited all that tequila out and realized that once again, her love life had really gone down the toilet and that’s when she’d cried.

And so, when after Robert had come around and been nice, she’d totally backslid right into the damn metaphorical _parking lot_ and thought about how they were practically almost the same and dated him again, and now here she was, lying in bed with her brother by her side going through every single reason why she fucking _shouldn’t_.

And then, suddenly, Brandon’s snoring. Fucking snoring, like this is some kind of fucking sleepover and shit and she isn’t just lying there reminiscing about everything wrong with her life. 

.

There is a week left in her wedding, and she can’t sleep. She can’t sleep through all the cigarettes and all the pills and all of the fancy ass wine she’s been getting at the fancy ass wedding-gown store which she deserves, because wow that store is fucking expensive- even if all they’re doing is hemming the dress.

She takes a look in the same mirror she did two weeks ago, back when she first tried the _freaking monstrosity_ that belonged in a fashion line with a really pretentious French name by some big-ass, terrible French designer who used the word chic every five minutes and got turned on by feathers. Right now, she doesn’t look like a model for the pastry fashion line; instead she looks a lot like that Samara chick from _The Ring,_ with rings of black under her eyes and her skin all fucking grey-ish and shit, like, wow. 

Well, this fucking _sucks._

To add to it, Catelyn’s got her these freaking five inch heels that make her feet ache every time she even _looks_ at them and she is _this_ close to just chucking them out the window and into the mud and forever ruining them and admitting it because she is just that fucking _done._ What is even more suck-y, is the fact that she tried to talk to Ashara about the fact that, _oh, yeah, getting married is the worst decision I’ve ever made and I regret it and help me before  I kill myself,_ only to be greeted with a giggle and a small reassurance the _everybody gets cold feet before the wedding._ And to put the fucking icing on the cake, Jaime has taken to ignoring her, ignoring everything she sends his way- phone calls, texts, emails, even that fucking letter she wrote to him while feeling like the a character from _Downton Abbey._ All she got in answer to all of them was one simple text: _I won’t sit there and look at you ruin your life._

Wow, thanks for making her feel supported, best friend.   

So then, she called up the one person who’d come running if she was ever in a rut, even if he did it _after laughing his ass off,_ Oberyn Martell. And all he did was hold her while she tried to cry and let it all out and failed because apparently, having no sleep also gets to your ability to cry.  So then all she could do was hug him and laugh a little when he told her she looked _fuckin’ terrible, Lya, seriously you look like a crack addict_ and is now sitting behind her while she looks at herself in the mirror and admits to herself, that yeah, maybe she does look like a trying-to-be-clean-crack-addict.

Suddenly, Oberyn’s got his hands on her shoulders and his palms are pressing into his back and she sighs at the contact. He turns her around and says, ‘Listen, I’ve got something that might help you calm down and maybe get some sleep in.’ And then he pulls out a bottle of pills that says, _Gilbert, Henry_ and also _Valium._  

“Valium.” She deadpans. “Don’t you think I’ve fucking tried valium!”

He cringes and then shakes his head, his voice a low whisper, almost theatrical. “It’s a sort of new mix-up drug from a guy I know. Hallucinating chemicals and shit and really fucking strong. I thought I needed it after that board meeting with the dragon-ass but I guess you’re the one who really needs it. ”

She looks at it like its offending and then shrugs and takes it from him. Pops the cap and swallows one and then it’s all pretty much black.

When she wakes up, it’s Thursday and apparently she’s in the hospital because she’s been unconscious for the past two days.  All she can remember is a party and music and vegetables dancing and some giant cat and then she’s all like, _‘OBERYN WHAT THE FUCK WAS IN THAT FUCKING VALIUM.’_

Brandon tells her how Jaime came by to see how she was doing and then left as soon as he found out she was going to be fine (well, fuck you too, then), and about how Robert came too but then got hungry and went to the cafeteria and asks her if she wants some food that isn’t soup or terrible hospital jello.

And then it hits her; there is officially five days left to the wedding and yep, she wants that bottle again.

What’s even more pathetic is the fact that what’s bothering her more is the fact that Jaime will come to see her if there’s even a -2.878 percent chance that she’s going to die, but he won’t come be with her when she’s up and alive and shit. It makes her want to rip the needles off herself and change and go to his apartment-even though it’s like three in the morning- and just knock like crazy until he opens the door and then jump on him and fucking bitch-slap him like this is mean girls or some shit _because how fucking dare he._ That’s what’s bothering her instead of asking why Oberyn has a black eye or if the wedding preparations are fine and just, what is wrong with her?!

But she just lies there for a while because at least no one’s yelling at her to be careful about what she’s eating or what kind of earrings will suit her dress or giving her those terrible, terrible fruit bars that taste like wood and iron.  She closes her eyes and decides that she can go bang on his door tomorrow, because right now, there’s a fifty-fifty chance she might get some actual, non-drug induced sleep, and that’s enough for her.

The next day, when she’s finally settled back in home and feels confident that she’s not going to tip the fuck over in those shoes, she goes over to Jaime’s. And starts hitting the door with her fists like a deranged woman. No judgment. Jaime yanks open the door and she shoves him back, taking her own permission and coming in. She kicks the door behind her and shoves him again. And tries to, again, only this time he catches her hands and yells, ‘Fucking stop it!’ 

“No!” She yells, because how fucking dare he. “No, I’m not going to stop because you’re a fucking asshole who won’t even hold my hand when I need you and I have four days to my fucking wedding and I need my best friend by my side only my best friend can’t be fucking bothered to help me get through this!”

He looks pissed, and just as she’s about to tell him that he has no real right to be angry, he yells right back, “You don’t think I know that?! You talk about it as if it’s a noose and you’re going towards your death! And what’s worse is, you’re right! You’re right, you’re going to die and it’s going to be slow and painful and through every single day filled with nothing but sadness. You’re going to die caged and unhappy with an unfaithful husband and children you don’t really want. You’re going to die every day and by God, I’m not going to look at you every day and see you die and not do anything okay? I can’t.”

And yeah, she’s sort of stumped, because you can’t really say something to that now can you?

“Well-” She coughs, embarrassed by the crack in her voice. “I need you. I need your help. I need- I need my best friend back, Jaime. C’mon.”

He sighs, closes his eyes for a long minute before he opens them again, and lets her hands go. “I know, but I’m not going to watch you wreck yourself. I’m sorry.”

And she’d think about either crying or hitting him again, only he’s kissing her then with bruising strength and she suddenly doesn’t give a shit about _anything._ His hands are on her waist and his tongue swipes her bottom lip and when did her own hands find their way into his hair, golden and soft. And then he pulls away, breathing hard like herself and suddenly pushes her out the door and slams it close in her face. And if this was someone else, _anyone_ else, she’d fucking beat that door until the wood broke or the guy opened the door again, but right now she can still feel the warmth of his arms on her waist, the feel of his lips against hers and she can still taste him so all she can do is just stand there with her fingers on her mouth like a _fucking idiot._

“Oh Jesus.” She says, trying to process it all and failing.

She returns home after almost getting hit by a car, which jolts her out of it. She then goes and promptly locks her room and throws herself on her bed, shoves a pillow into her mouth and screams as loud as she can because her life just wasn’t confusing enough with _that_ in the way now was it.

So now, she’s got four days to marrying the guy nobody should, she’s losing weight like a bitch- seriously, her cheeks are caving in- and also her best friend just kissed her like it was a fucking Katherine Heigl movie and what’s worse is the fact that she wants to go back and pretty much fuck his brains out which is just _pathetic._ Moreover, when she thinks about it for the first time she goes into this day dream faze where she’s cheering for him at a game of his and his team wins and as soon as he comes over she jumps on him and kisses him with her legs wrapped around him and then promptly slaps herself because what the actual fuck that is not how best friend’s imagine their future. No. Just, no.

Does she love him? Yeah, yeah she loves him. She’s known him for years. He’s the guy who’s always there for her, who she calls up at seven in the morning with a hangover and sore all over and he doesn’t say anything about it and just takes her over to his apartment and gives her coffee. He’s the guy who she screws dates over for and dumps guys for and the first person she thinks about when she wants to do something. Hell, he’s the first person she thinks about when she wakes up. She knows that if he called her up at three in the morning and told her to come over and help him bury the dead body of the guy he murdered, she would. And she also knows that if it was her calling with news like that, he’d do it for her too. But it’s more than that- he’s the guy who’s just there in the back of her head like a part of her, like a leg or an arm. She loves him. She always has.

Is she in love with him? Maybe _si,_ maybe no. Maegealways saysthat if you’re best friends with a guy for a very, very long time, after a while it’s like they turn into a non-sexual object. You just can’t think of them having a dick or something. They turn into something resembling a lamp. Or a water bottle. Or maybe a purse? That hasn’t ever been the case with her and Jaime. She’s always known that he’s a guy and she’s made sure that even if they’re _bffs_ but still, her skirt never climbs _way too_ high (at least while she’s conscious). They’ve shared a bed a couple of times, and nine times out of ten, they wake up with one of them humping the other’s leg and it’s always been pretty normal but also pretty weird and none of them ever mentions it. She’s always thought of him as being a guy with male desires and someone who likes to fuck and would fuck her if they weren’t best friends and the way he kissed her, he’s thought about it too. So then, is she in love with him? Does she want to fucking marry him and have his babies and shit?

To the first question, the answer’s still maybe _si,_ maybe no. To the second one? No. She doesn’t want to fucking marry anyone and she doesn’t want children, she’s fucking twenty four, what the fuck. So maybe she is in love with him, God knows it’s the closest she’s been to ever being in love, but if being in love won’t make her want to be married and have children then maybe getting married to Robert is like a death wish. Maybe she is going to turn into one of those middle aged women who nod to their husbands pathetic excuses on the phone about why they’re not going to be home and then proceed to keep popping pills and new champagne bottles and then fuck the hot plumber guy who comes in sometimes and Oh God, no.

Suddenly it’s like she’s going to fucking throw up because _wow._ Maybe that’s how Jaime sees it too and if he does then she can’t really blame him for not wanting to watch because right now she’s racked with the belief to fucking _run_ and live as a stripper but just not get married because she’d rather be alive for a few days then die every single day for the next four decades.

Oh jeez. Here we go.

So she stands up and marches over to her father’s study and walks right in like she owns the place, eager to get it all out because if she doesn’t do it now she never will and then before she can say anything, her father’s walking over to her with one of those _rare, rare_ smiles that she’d forgotten and tells her that he is so, so proud of her and ain’t that just _fucking great_?!  

So in light of this news, she smiles and nods and also deflates like a stupid, pathetic helium balloon or some shit and then goes back to her room. She runs a bath and then gets in, without taking off the fucking jeans or the shirt she’s wearing or even the socks, turns on the shower and just sits there with her knees hugged to her chest, because suddenly the prospect of actually running off and being a stripper isn’t sounding really bad anymore and she’s pretty sure that if she does ever let her legs go, her body will become a sentient being of its own and then ignore her conscious and then simply run out the front door all dripping and catch the first train to Hollywood boulevard where she can strip and tease.

Somewhere in the middle she starts fucking crying. Crying like one of those stupid, sad heroines in old movies and that makes her cry even more. Maybe that’s how Scarlet O’Hara felt, she thinks, when her hot hunk left her.

She sits in the shower for about three hours in desperate hopes that the cold water will give her pneumonia and end in her death which would be so, so much better than all the fucking drama in her life. 

She finally closes the shower and takes off the sopping wet clothes, abandoning them to get the replacements in the form of one of those really fancy silk robes Rhaegar bought her in Paris. Which makes her feel a bit better, because who doesn’t like silk hugging their skin. Also the fact that she isn’t wearing something that looks like a really bad three dimensional structure of ice cream boosts her confidence.

And then she thinks, she’s a freaking Stark. But she’s more than that. She’s Lyanna, the way Jaime’s always called her. She’s her own person, with her own opinions and she always makes things work out. She slept with a married man at nineteen, and she made it work.  She slept with one of the most notorious men who also happened to be the married man’s brother-in-law, but she made that work too and now they’re pretty good friends. She’s made things work, made them better than work, and she’ll make this work too. It’s time to stop being afraid of everything and just fucking _live._ Plus, if the marriage is so bad, she can totally just get a divorce.

 _Or run away and live in Tahiti,_ a voice in her mind treacherously whispers.

 _Yeah, okay- or I can run away and live in Tahiti,_ she agrees.

She curls into her bed and sleeps soundly.

.

Robert is taking her to Venice. Fucking Venicewhere she’s going to have to sit in the hotel while Robert drinks and drinks.Fucking Venice.

It’s not that she doesn’t like Venice or anything, it’s just the fact that going on trips with Robert is sort of…well…terrible. All he does is sit in the hotel room and order room service and drink all the expensive champagne and shit and watch creepy pay-per-view action films and usually she’d love doing all that if she were at home, but Robert never gets the point of going _out and exploring_ new cities so all they ever do is sit there.

And to make it worse, they’re playing _I Say A  Little Prayer F_ o _r_ _You_ as her and Roberts song after the wedding and what the fuck, this isn’t my best friend’s wedding.

Okay, maybe, just maybe, it is. For Jaime, probably.

Life sucks. It sucks but she’s made her peace with it, and tomorrow she’s going to walk down that fucking aisle like a fucking badass. Or she’ll pull an Indiana Jones and jump rope out of there like a fucking badass. It could go both ways.

The bell rings about eight times, until Lyanna finally pulls open the door and there they are, her very own bachelorette party people. Catelyn and Elia and Ashara and Maege, all ready to explode on her with confetti. Before she can even say anything, they’ve dragged her out and put her in a cab and they’re all heading to _the golden duck,_ which is apparently not a well respected restaurant that deals in gourmet duck dishes, but instead a strip club filled with lots and lots and lots of naked men with lots and lots of terrible costumes. There’s a sailor and a police man and a mobster ( _what the actual fuck_ ) and even a pirate for some strange reason. In the next hour or so, their drinks arrive and Catelyn keeps blushing like a good little girl, Elia is chugging on tequila, Maege leaves the room in the lap of a stripper while yelling something like ‘ _fuck yes score_ ’ in an exceptionally awful British accent and Ashara is the only one who can hold her liquor almost as well as Lyanna because she’s pretty much still hooting and shoving money into some guys’ underwear every five minutes.

“So, you’re gettin’ married.” Ashara slurs as soon as she sits back down next to her and Lyanna tries to keep the nod she gives from turning into a depressive one, but she fails and her head lolls forward, pathetically.

“You should call-” Ashara stands up and yells again, making it rain in twenties. “Give mama some sugar, prison fodder!”

Then she gives a whoop and sits back down and downs her drink. “Call Jaime- You should- Jaime. Call the guy, the man, the hot bod.”

Lyanna’s pretty gone right then but it seems as if Ashara’s gone further. “Uhuh. No way.”   

“Why the fuck not?” Ashara asks it like it’s the most amazing thing happening in the universe. “You- should set the guy free, y’know. Let him have one night with you, maybe help flush you outta his system for good. But, but do it for you too ‘cause last night of freedom and all so yeah.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Dayne? Set him free, what the fuck, he is free!” Lyanna says, and starts to feel a tiny bit sober again, and no, can’t have that, so she rips away the tequila bottle from Eli to take a large gulp. It’s disgusting and too bitter and cheap and for some reason exactly what she needs. Elia’s head thuds down onto the table and she’s drooling. Neither Ashara nor Lyanna can even begin to care.

“I’m jus’ sayin’. The guy is like in love with you and you’re in love with him but you’re marryin’ Robert and that’s jus’ very unromantic and very Jane Austin shit.” Ashara half-mumbles and then sort of leans into Lyanna and says, “If you decide you wanna run away and be with Jaime tomorrow, I’ll help you, okay? Okay.”

“This, this right here is why we’re friends.” Lyanna says but Ashara’s got other plans and sorts of shoves the phone to her ear.

“It’s midnight, what do you want?” It’s Jaime’s voice and Lyanna never thought she was going to cry while listening to his voice but right now it seems like a really big possibility.

“Hi.” She whispers, because for some reason this feels like a thin, thin piece of glass between them, one that might break at the slightest yell.

“Lyanna?”

“Um, I promised myself that I wouldn’t call and I didn’t- like- Ashara called and made me talk and I just- I miss you. I mean, I’ve got all my friends around and really hot, naked guys everywhere and Robert’s great and I’m getting married tomorrow and I would trade it all for sitting with you on that God awful couch of yours and watching football or something and that’s just extremely pathetic and I miss you and I don’t know what to do and I was thinking and then I realized that I’m sort of in love with you and I don’t know if you’re in love with me too but that’s okay it’s just the fact that you’re my best friend and I love you and I’m sorry if I ever stopped you from doing something or if I’ve been emotionally cock-blocking you for the last few years or something because that’s just not cool and I’m sorry I never knew that you felt this way about me even though you haven’t really told me which way you feel about me and I just want you back in whatever way and I get if we can’t do that and okay now I’m babbling and I think I told you this but I’m sorry and I love you and- and- and, um, I’m really, really drunk right now so if we ever meet again let’s just never talk about it and yeah, bye.”  

Well, the whole calm-and-quiet conversation idea didn’t work out so well, now did it?

Ashara sort of leans over and says, “Feeling’ better? ‘cause look, at least now you won’t have to regret the fact that you never told the guy- you did and he didn’t like it and he won’t talk to you and he wasn’t gonna do it before, either so it’s perfectly okay, okay? Okay.” And then Ashara sort of gives her a tiny peck on the lips, puts her hands around Lyanna’s waist and then promptly passes the fuck out.

 _Awesome,_ Lyanna thinks, and then disentangles herself and tries to gather the strength to collect the girls and take them back.

.

The woman puts the veil on top of Lyanna’s overly coiffed hair. She stares in the mirror and tries to understand what she’s feeling. Is it dread, or excitement or happiness, or a coronary thrombosis? Before she and do the whole sigh-and-smile thing in the huge mirror, Elia pushes her away to check if her bruise is still visible under the paint-coat of Ashara’s foundation.

Lyanna looks at her nails. They’re all french-manicured and shit. Vomit. She’s wearing high heels with lace. Double vomit.

She admits it. It’s not that she doesn’t love Robert, she actually does. He’s her first love- the first guy she ever had sex with, the first one who took her to dates and parties and all sorts of places and was never put down by her boyish-ness and her things. Maybe she’ll always love him, with a piece of her heart beating just for him and a room in her mind designated to the memories of him that she’ll sometimes remember and smile, but she really doesn’t want to marry the guy.

Hell, she doesn’t want to marry _anyone._ She’s twenty two years old. She doesn’t want to marry Jaime, even if she is in love with him, and she doesn’t want to marry Arthur, or Oberyn or pretty much _anybody at fucking all,_ thank you very much. She doesn’t want this to define her. She wants a relationship, maybe, maybe not. She wants to wake up every day all excited and happy and _fuck,_ she wants to not feel like if a car was going to hit her, she wouldn’t particularly move out of the way. 

She wants to _live_.

So maybe Dad is going to be really disappointed, and Brandon’s never going to let it go and Catelyn’s going to look at her with the pity eyes, or the fact that Robert will probably throw a major bitch-fit and kill someone, or whether Jaime will ever love _love_ her back the way she love _loves_ him, but by God-

She’s not going to spend another moment being told on how to live her life.

Lyanna’s walking out the room before she knows it. 

 .

The music hasn’t even started and she’s already making her way down the aisle. Someone starts the thing, but it’s messy and out of tune.

She reaches the end and Robert’s confused smile is still so blinding that she almost gives in. Instead, she curls her hands into fists and takes a deep breath. She turns to the guests and coughs.

“The wedding’s not gonna happen. I’m really sorry everyone. I really should have said it before, but I just couldn’t. I thought that I could deal with it, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry. Matrimony  just isn’t my cup of tea.” She says, and she’s proud of the fact that her voice is strong over the thing. She turns to Robert and tries to convey it all, all the things she’s discovered about herself but she can’t and her voice cracks when she tries to say something. She swallows and says: “I can’t marry you, Robert. And I’m really sorry for that. I love you, but I love myself more and I’m not going to potentially ruin my life to make yours. And I’m sorry for that too. And I’m sorry for the fact that I didn’t tell you this before. I hope you can forgive me.”

Robert looks pretty damn shell-shocked, but she can also see the craziness and anger slowly rising through him so she decides to make her escape. Lyanna starts walking back up the aisle and then suddenly stops, ignores the proud smile Oberyn sends her way and says, “Oh, and somebody call Janet. Tell her not to open the caviar. But I do hope you all get to have the other food.”

And then she’s off and running.

.

She takes her jeans and her T-shirt and hails down a cab in a pastry dress.

“A hundred and fifty dollars for the next seven blocks, but you keep your eyes front or I deduct.” She tells the guy, and he nods.

She gets in and starts unlacing the dress and the driver’s eyes widen. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She rolls her eyes. “Hey, it’s a hundred and forty now.” He groans and she continues. “If I show up at the guy’s house in a wedding dress he’ll get the wrong fucking idea.”

‘ _Oh._ ’ He says, and the dress is finally off and she’s slipping the T-shirt on. She’s lying half way down in the backseat when she’s finally done closing the button of her jeans and then five minutes later, they’ve stopped. She gets out and shuffles a couple of notes through her pocket.

“Ninety dollars. You know what you did.” She tells him and the guys nods, resignation on his face and no shame.

She charges up the stairs and beats on his door and it’s only when he opens it and pokes his head out with his ridiculously fabulous hair falling over his eyes that she notes that she hasn’t particularly decided what to say to him.

“Hi.” She settles.

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t close the door in his face. Thinking positive.

“What do you want, Lyanna?” He asks.

She coughs. “I want to talk to you.”

He sighs. He sighs like he’s the fucking president and he has to fucking decide whether they’re going to go to war or not.  And then he finally says, “Come on in.”

Ten minutes later they’re sitting on his couch and not saying anything.

“You were right.” She decides to start it with that. “You were right.” _Now what?_

“Okay.” He says, and _wow,_ thanks for making this easy, man.

“I didn’t marry him. I was going to, but then I didn’t. You were right, it was wrong, and my life would suck and I didn’t really want to do it and I’m in love with you and you were _right,_ okay, _you fucking asshole,_ you were right!” For some strange reason, she feels like she’s going to bawl.

“You’re in love with me?” He sounds incredulous. And disbelieving.

“Yes!” she yells. “Yes, yes, I’m in love with you. I’ve said it more than eight times and you still haven’t reacted so if you’re going to say something about it, say it already so that I can get over it and if this is just you not wanting to hurt my feelings or something then you can spit it out because I can take it-”

He kisses her.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love you since the first time I saw you throw a drink in that guy’s face.”

And then he kisses her, again.

Jaime Lannister is kissing her, _again,_ the way he does everything; without any hesitation, without reticence, just his lips against her, wet and biting, and _holy fucking shit._ She can taste _him_ and the slight taste of beer under his tongue. She’s got her hands in his hair as far as they’ll go and his hands are at the hem of her shirt and lifting and the point between her legs is throbbing and wet and _Oh, God._

And then she realizes that she’s going to have to have sex with the guy she’s in love with on his couch and just no. Hell no. She rips her mouth away from his and pulls him up even though it fucking hurts to even move.

“Bedroom.” She says, or rather pants out and curls her hand into his shirt and literally yanks him towards the other room. He groans and she mutters out a, “You’ve waited for me for five years, you can do it for another thirty seconds.”

Turns out, it’s worth moving because his bed is fucking huge and her thighs feel less tense and then he’s lying on top of her and kissing her and one of his hands is unbuttoning her jeans and she’s trying to pull his shirt off. It’s messy and awkward and so, _so_ worth it when he’s finally done and deems it okay to stop kissing her so she can finally just pull his shirt off. He helps get her shirt off and she’s suddenly extremely thankful for Maege buying her all the super-sexy underwear and then it’s his skin on hers and she’s groaning out loud.

Her hair is fanned out everywhere and his hair is falling on her forehead and it’s all okay and she wants him so much it’s not even a little bit funny.             

His fingers are dancing over her clit and he’s rutting against her hip, all heat trapped in denim and she’s teetering over the fucking edge and oh god, oh god, _Oh fucking God,_ she’s there and then the sharp coil inside her finally snaps and everything goes supernova for a few amazing seconds.

And then, he asks, “Can I?” and she’s going to say something like, _aren’t you paying attention, ’course you can,_ before she notes the way his tone wavers slightly and she cups his face, skin searing hot under her palm and says ‘Yes.’

And he pushes and _there,_ and she takes a moment for her body to compensate and then she’s clamping down to memorize the feel of him inside her. There’s too many cramps in her thighs and they’re both hot and sweating, but that’s what she likes, how it’s all worth it, the noises he makes, how she likes the way he shudders when she rakes her nails down his back, lightly and then, harder.

He moves, sets a rhythm and she moves along with it, rough and skin slapping against skin and _fuck,_ there’s that elastic coil again, ready to go. And he keeps on moving and she’s coming again and dragging him with her. His body shivers on top of hers and she feels the aftershock running through her body and she combs a hand through his soaked hair and takes his hand into her other one. She looks at him with something akin to awe, looks at his fanned lashes and the mouth that brushes a kiss against the corner of her own, and she laughs. She laughs loud and clear and _alive._

 _“_ You made me pull my leg muscle. I’m not going to be able to move for a week.”She says, after, _after_ the laughing fit has ceased, after he’s rolled off her but hasn’t pulled his hand away from hers.

“Good.” He tells her, and he’s got one of those rare, _rare_ smiles on his face. “I’m not letting you out of this bed for at least a month.”

“Really? Even after you saw what happened with Rhaegar?” She asks him, the same smile plastered on her own face.

“Yep.” He says, and rolls on top of her again.

Jaime kisses her and steals all the breath from her lungs. She doesn’t mind and instead, laughs again, laughs and laughs. He kisses her again, through the laughter, and steals all the air from her lungs.

Everything is going to be okay.

 

     

**Author's Note:**

>  **notes 1** ugh. this took me like a total of three months to write, trying to get it good and perfect and just ugh. then i just gave up. i really hope you guys liked it.  
>  **notes 2** title from 'Call It What You Want by Foster The People '  
>  **notes 3** special thanks to by best friend, jen, for telling me she liked it and stopping me from deleting it all the time. i really do like it now. and as always, to the people reading this. if there was something you'd like me to improve, or whether it's just a small thing telling me if you liked it, let me know! :)


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